


Feasty

by WahlBuilder



Series: Scarves and Mittens [9]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Fugue Feast, Gift Giving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 05:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8957071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Oleg is musing before the start of the Fugue Feast, and he can't wait to give a present to his assassin.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timekill3r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timekill3r/gifts).



> The characters are from ['Star is speaking to star'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6634600), but this work is a kind of AU to that work.  
> It can be safely read as a standalone piece.

The Fugue Feast was not the most favourite of Oleg’s times of the year—and at the same time, he liked it very much. Although technically speaking, it wasn’t a time of year at all. It was the time outside the time, a period when all humanity was letting the Chaos onto the streets. This way everyone could remind themselves what havoc the Chaos might wreck if not battled every step of the way.

Oleg didn’t have any objections to the festivities themselves. He rather liked the sight of food piled high on tables put out right on the stones of the streets and squares, the colourful lightning that adorned every house that could afford it... The lightning was even in the poorest of houses. Such families would keep beeswax candles for such a grand occasion. He liked the joyous off-key singing, liked the drunken people cheering and giving laughing strangers sloppy kisses.

But he didn’t participate in it.

Some of his brothers did, shedding the heavy burden of Overseeing for a few days and nights only to put it on with more vigour afterwards. He couldn’t blame them, could understand why they did it, but it was far from what he could and would do.

Oleg used to indulge himself by getting a cup of mulled wine that somebody among his brothers would make in unhealthy amounts. Stealing a few sweetbreads from the kitchen, Oleg would get on the ledge outside the Archive room, overlooking Holger Square, and watch the fireworks, the crowds, the cheering.

Listening to the inevitable cries for help or shouts of anger.

The Chaos was always waiting.

But this time, the Fugue Feast would be different. Maybe not for Dunwall or the citizens, but for Oleg himself it would.

This time, Oleg was the High Overseer. He would open the Feast, he would determine when the new year is due, he would close the Feast.

He didn’t bother with making a costume or having any adjustments to the crimson coat made, although a mask was expected from him.

Not the Overseer mask, obviously.

Using the storage of discarded items that nobody had any use for but couldn’t decide what to do with in the Archives, he had found a simple black half-mask. That was all he was going to change about his appearance. But the whole role of the High Overseer itself was nothing more than a mask; for Campbell, it had merged with his face, and so he had fallen; for Oleg, it had been just a colour change of his usual uniform coat.

As the High Overseer, he was not required to participate in the festivities themselves besides the opening and closing ceremonies, but people would watch his actions and movements closely nonetheless. Would the new High Overseer walk out to the streets but maintain his appearance and hover like a dark cloud over everyone? Would he change his appearance, trying to become someone else, and let the Chaos control him for a few days and nights?

Oleg was planning to take part in the initial ceremony, wish everyone a good feast, and then retreat back behind the sturdy walls of the Office. A candle would be lit in the window of the High Overseer’s personal quarters, but it would be all.

But before all that, he still had some time to be Oleg the Overseer before he would don the crimson.

He had lit the candle already, but it was not for the people outside—it was waiting for one person Oleg wanted to see before the start of the Feast.

A slight wind playing with the curtains. Somewhere in the city, a firework went off, and a few streets replied with a chorus of cheers. The sun had already set, but the clouded sky was alight with many lights of the Feast—and so Oleg saw a shadow materialise on the roof of the house opposite of the Office.

He smiled and waited more. The shadow flickered here and there, moving closer, and Oleg made a step back from the window to allow his guest to enter.

However, Monroe seemed to decide to forgo the windowsill and materialised with a rush of air right in front of Oleg. Oleg laughed as he was scooped in a tight embrace, and wound his own arms around the Whaler.

‘I see you are in a good mood, my Prince,’ Monroe said into Oleg’s hair.

Oleg only burrowed closer into the shielding jacket that smelled of cigarette smoke and sea water. Monroe wasn’t wearing his uniform tonight.

‘You came, and lifted my spirits.’ Oleg freed himself from the embrace and looked up at Monroe.

He was gorgeous, with a dangerous glint already dancing in his eyes. A mask—purple with ridiculously huge red feathers, their tips touched by gold paint—was dangling from his left hand.

The Whaler leaned forward, but Oleg, anticipating some dirty move from the Whaler, made a few steps back and smiled. ‘No. Wait for a moment.’

Monroe’s appearance lifting his spirits wasn’t a lie; Oleg felt light, almost ready to float, and he hadn’t had any wine yet.

He turned around and rushed to the small table his brothers used to put the morning mail for the High Overseer on. Now it only had one item on top of it, wrapped in white linen. Oleg wasn’t good at wrapping, he could admit that, but he supposed such a gift would be difficult to wrap without ruining its looks regardless of the wrapping person’s skill.

He took the gift and carried it to Monroe who was watching him with intent interest. The Whaler lowered his eyes on Oleg’s outstretched arms, and Oleg had a moment of self-consciousness and had to say, ‘It’s for you.’

Monro’'s eyes lit up like eyes of a child, making him look younger. He left the mask on the windowsill and took the gift with both hands, then removed the linen wrapping.

And laughed.

It was a good, low laughter, complete with Monroe tossing his hair, left unruly this night. The feathers on his mask shook on the wind, as if joining Monroe in his fun.

Then Monroe spread the long golden scarf and wrapped it a few times around his neck. It was voluminous, and impractically long, its ends reaching lower Monroe’s waistline even when the whole thing was wrapped around his neck four or five times. Spread out, it could almost be used as a quilt. Oleg had tried that.

Oleg smiled at Monroe, at the way he was running his fingers over the scarf and tugging as the tassels on the ends. ‘Do you like it?’

Monroe turned his gaze to him, and it was blazing. ‘I _love_ it. Everyone would be so jealous of me and my perfect scarf.’ He threw one of the ends to his back dramatically.

Making Oleg laugh in turn.

He hadn’t expect this to be so good. He hadn’t felt this well in a long time.

Something shifted in Monroe’s face, his smile became wider, less innocent. More intimate. ‘I have a gift for you, too, little one. If you don’t have plans for the night. And the other nights of the Feast.’

Oleg’s breath caught, and his heart started beating a fraction faster. He didn’t expect that Monroe would want to spend the time of the Feast with him. The mask had only confirmed his assumptions. But it seemed he was wrong. ‘I will open the Feast. But after that I will return here.’

Monroe nodded. ‘Fine by me.’ The Whaler turned to pick up his mask, then turned to Oleg again. ‘Don’t fall asleep, though. And don’t drink too much wine. Don’t let anyone get handsy with you either. I’d cut their hands off for that.’

Oleg chuckled. It was a joke—but at the same time, it wasn’t, and the thrill of knowing that should have been wrong, but Oleg couldn’t feel that wrongness. ‘I’ll wait for you. Now I need to get dressed. So flee, heretic!’

Monroe smirked—a smirk full of knowledge that he was irresistible—put one boot on the windowsill, stretched a hand to the nearest roof, and then air was rushing into the place where the Whaler had been just a moment ago.

The Feast was promising to become more interesting than ever, and Oleg didn’t feel like it was a burden anymore when he went to change into the High Overseer clothes.

**Author's Note:**

> [Monroe's antics](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9067033) are no less interesting.


End file.
